


The Life of Riley

by Gozer



Series: Due South's "Faux" Third Season [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s02e05 The Promise, Gen, Humor, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:06:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gozer/pseuds/Gozer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the apartments, in all of Chicago, in all the world, he pussy-foots into Fraser's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Life of Riley

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate-universe third season story that posits Due South following the same path as the first and second season; in other words, Ray Vecchio did not leave on any ridiculous undercover jobs and he and Fraser continued solving whimsical/tragic crimes in Chicago. This is a follow-up to the episode "The Promise", sort of.

It had been a long, hot, sweltering Friday in the city of Chicago, the temperature barely dropping as the sun went down. With the twilight came a cat burglar, sidling alongside the apartment building, keeping off the hot pavement and in the shadows. He cased the area with a knowing eye, looking for an opportunity and finding it by way of a window, which had been propped open with a stick in order to welcome in any breeze that might be wafting by, the tenant of the apartment having the need but neither the desire nor the cash to purchase air-conditioning.

The thief perched a moment on the sill, giving his eyes a moment to adapt to the relative darkness within, then dropped lightly and soundlessly to the floor. Like all good professional house-breakers, he didn’t wander around unfamiliar territory—on the contrary, he knew exactly what he’d come for, and went to it directly. There, in the kitchen, next to the refrigerator... a tin dish holding The Food of the Gods: 14.75 ounces of BumbleBee Alaskan canned salmon. As the label promised, it was, indeed, “America’s #1 Salmon”; used in the lower forty-eight to make salmon burgers, salmon salad, and ‘safe’ sushi. Of course, in Alaska, it was generally referred to as “dog food.” The thief bent to the battered dish and began to take large gulps of the pink, fishy-smelling glop, purring loudly as he did so.

I did say this was a _cat_ burglar, didn’t I? Specifically, the thief was a small, sleek, elegant, brown-and-gray furred, two-year-old mackerel tabby cat with a red-rubber-eraser-colored nose; small, rounded, black ears; and whiskers entirely too large for his face. He had four neat, white paws and a white muzzle, a ringed tail, and the traditional tabby-cat “M” on his forehead. His eyes were green and tilted, betraying a Siamese great-great-great-grandfather who’d been slumming way back in the mists of time, and right now those eyes were dilated with wordless, seafood-induced joy. A cat burglar.

But this cat was no run-of-the-mill burglar—truly, thievery was not merely his work, it was his vocation. A thief didn’t define what he did—it was who he was. He had a stash of smash-and-grabbed items in his basket at home to put any jackdaw to shame. How he loved to curl up on his plaid blanket and idly paw through his treasures—the Soft-Fluffies, the Round-Rollies and, best of all, the Pretty-Shinies. Once in his youth, despite the fact that he weighed only about twelve pounds soaking wet (not that he would ever allow himself to become soaking wet), he’d tried to drag home a two-year-old child because he liked the way the wind ruffled through her blonde curls. Her keepers had come along and taken her away from him, and he’d run off in embarrassment when they tried to pet him. That one fiasco aside, he generally got and kept what he stole. His name was Riley.

The sound of a key in the lock, a hand on the knob, and Riley levitated, as all cats can do, to the open window. He disappeared from sight in a heart-beat. The lights came on in the room he’d just vacated.

“Well, that was certainly... productive,” spoke a human voice. “I’d thank you, Diefenbaker, for your unaccustomed efficiency with regard to ‘walkies’ tonight, but I know it’s all in aid of your getting back to your favorite, once-a-week salmon dinner.”

A whine answered the voice... it was the whine of A Hated One. Riley’s ears pricked and he lifted his nose, breathing in the scent so deeply his eyes crossed. One of Those Who Did Not Wash Themselves, and a big one at that. Riley hated the kind of furred, four-legged people who didn’t cover up their own excrement—it seemed such a boastful thing, to leave it lying around for just anybody to sniff.

Riley flickered down the fire escape. He would remember this place and be back.

The passage of not very many minutes found the cat clawing his way up a gnarled oak tree. He tippy-toed along one outstretched branch to a small window, entering a brick, three-story residence unnoticed by its inhabitants—or by anyone else, for that matter. Slipping between several glass jars of scented salts decorating a shelf over the sink, he bounded lightly to the floor. After a brief scratch in the box of kitty litter next to the toilet bowl, Riley poked an inquisitive nose around the bathroom door. He sniffed, taking stock of his house—for that was where he was, in his own home.

The Two were here, as they generally were. He didn’t like The Two—well, the Male One might give him a pat on the head now and again, but the Female One was, to put it mildly, not a cat person. And since One and One made Two, Riley found himself disapproving of the Male One on principal. He sauntered to the top of the hall stairway and assumed the meatloaf position, ears erect and forward, listening. The Two were downstairs in the kitchen, arguing with one another, their voices not so much raised in anger, but hissing, with an undertone of growl. A ridge of fur raised itself along Riley’s back.

“Vivian! Are you out of your mind?”

“Shuttup, Jeep!”

“Why? She’s at the store and none of the windows are open, no one can hear me.”

“I can hear you! Just shut up. She’ll never notice, Jeep.”

“Hurry then! Why the hell do you always have to make everything so complicated?“

Riley’s ears quirked at a rustling sound; crinkly paper was of his hobbies. Only the unpleasant _rrrrip_ of shipping tape unspooling kept him from racing down the stairs to investigate. But moments later, the cat did race down the stairs, because the front door had opened and His Person had entered—and she was carrying a bag! He wound about her ankles sensually, enjoying the smell of sweaty feet and raw chicken wrapped in brown paper and plastic.

“Viv! Jeep! I’m home!” His Person reached down and scratched him behind the ears, exactly where he liked it.

The Female One came into the hall. “Aunt Emmy! Oh, give me that—you shouldn’t be out shopping in this heat, let alone at this hour! You should have sent Jeep!” The Female One kissed His Person on the cheek and took the bag from her. He batted at it and she pulled it out of his reach.

“I’m going to splash my face with water—it’s terrible out there! This heat wave’s just not letting up. This air-conditioning is a mercy.” His Person went up the stairs, leaving him alone with the Female One. The instant His Person was out of earshot, the Female One aimed a kick at him, spitting, “Scat, you little bastard!”, but he was too smart for her and danced out of her reach, tail straight up in an ironic salute. He ran up the stairs to The Two’s room. He felt a hairball coming on, and knew just where he wanted to heave it.

* * *

Diefenbaker was behaving very oddly tonight, mused Fraser to himself, but aloud he merely said, “Oh, go on, it couldn’t possibly have gone bad in the ten minutes we were out.” The wolf just whined at him, hovering protectively over the half-eaten mound of salmon without touching it.

“I know, Diefenbaker, it is quite a bit hotter than we’re used to. I’m not that hungry, myself.” The Mountie threw himself into a kitchen chair and had to fight to keep from slumping, wilting with the heat. It had to be at least 85 degrees in the apartment, probably more. And it was not a dry heat—the curling pages of his library book, Charles Dickens’ "The Chimes", bore testament to the humidity.

There was a knock at the door, a bit tentative. If he’d had his TV on, he’d have missed it—that is, if he had a television set. He peeled himself off the plastic seat and went to the door.

It was Inspector Thatcher. Despite the fact that she’d knocked on the door, obviously expecting someone to open it, she blinked, apparently surprised to see him. She had on a light-weight, white silk summer shift with a matching jacket, that odd green garnet brooch of which she was so fond attached to the lapel.

“Inspector?!” he was certainly surprised to see her, and found he was rather pleased. He held open the door to invite her in, but she held up her hand.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of intruding!” she rushed to assure him, a panicked look in her eye. “I just stopped by to give you this....”

‘This’ turned out to be a medium-sized, red-metal fan, its carry-strap clutched in the hand not held up in placation.

The door opposite Fraser’s opened up, and the round face of Mrs. Coolidge poked out, her many necklaces and bracelets clinking musically. “Oh, Mr. Fraser, I thought I heard your voice,” she said, her curious eyes taking in the stylish form of Inspector Thatcher framed in the doorway. In fact, Mrs. Coolidge looked as if she were a tailor rather expertly measuring the Inspector for a suit. “And is this your little girlfriend, Mr. Fraser? We’ve all of us in the building been so wanting to meet her!” The building’s grapevine would be buzzing tonight.

Meg Thatcher gulped, but it was Fraser who answered. “Uh, no, ma’am; actually, this is my superior officer.”

Mrs. Coolidge dismissed his protest breezily. “Oh, sweetie—’girlfriend’, ‘significant other’, ‘superior officer’—in the end, they’re all just a euphemism for the same thing, ain’t they?” She held out a brown paper sack. “Here you go, my dear; one of the freezers at Rudy’s Ice Cream Palace broke down in the brown-out we had this afternoon, so he was giving a special offer; buy-one, get-one-free. I got you vanilla.”

Fraser reached past Thatcher and took the package. “Thank you kindly. How did you know that was my favorite flavor?”

She laughed a great, rolling laugh. “Well, I don’t know, sweetheart, somehow I just figured vanilla would be your favorite. Guess I must be psychic! You and your little girlfriend enjoy that ice cream. You be good now!”

Still laughing, she shut the door on them.

Fraser’s eyes met those of the Inspector’s. He noted a muscle twitching in her cheek. “In the 1960’s, Mrs. Coolidge was on the stage,” he offered by way of explanation, “...in a group called ‘Peggy-Lee and the Shirdelles’." He shrugged. “I believe she was, ah, a Shirdelle.”

Much to his relief, the outburst foreshadowed by the Inspector's twitching cheek muscle was one of laughter, not rage. It was that kind of suppressed, silent laughter that inevitably builds and breaks into noisy, high-pitched giggles, so he grabbed her by one white silk sleeve and pulled her into the apartment, shutting the door behind her before Mrs. Coolidge could hear and possibly be offended.

“W-where do you want it?” she gasped out between giggles, and the look on his face must have betrayed him, because it set her off again. Wordlessly, she held up the red fan she’d brought over. Oh. Oh, dear.

“Here?” he indicated the top of a chest-of-drawers.

Her giggles dying down at last, she examined the place he’d chosen critically. “No, not there—we’re attempting to set up some cross-ventilation.” She looked around the room, her eye alighting at a point near a window. “This would be a good spot.” She put the fan down, swinging the electrical cord in her hand. “Outlet?” she inquired, eyebrows raised.

There was an electrical outlet behind a chair, which he pulled away from the wall for her, and she plugged the fan in. Once she switched it on, the difference in the room was almost immediately noticeable. Diefenbaker left the dish he’d been protecting in the kitchen and threw himself bodily in front of the artificial breeze, panting.

Fraser nodded in approval. “Thank you kindly; but won’t you be needing it yourself?”

She shook her head. “My apartment is climate-controlled. Besides, this isn’t my fan. I remembered seeing it in the storage basement back when I did The Inspection.”

“Ah,” Fraser nodded. Yes... The Inspection. The complete, top-to-bottom going-over of the Consulate the Inspector had performed when she’d first assumed command; he’d heard about it. He had missed The Inspection, as he’d been in the hospital at the time, but it was still whispered about amongst the junior staff of the Consulate in horror-stricken tones. It almost made Fraser glad Ray had shot him in the back.

She smiled, no doubt at the memory of the subsequent thirty-six-hour-long spit-and-polishing her entire staff had got down to after The Inspection. The fan certainly looked clean enough. “I see no reason why one of my staff can’t make use of it,” she said.

“As soon as this heat wave breaks, I assure you, I’ll have it back in storage immediately,” he promised her.

“Somehow, from you, I’d expect nothing less, Constable,” she said formally. She looked at the brown paper sack in his hand. “You’re dripping.”

It was the ice cream Mrs. Coolidge had given him, which he’d forgotten to put away. He brought it over to the kitchen counter, and pulled out two bowls. “This ice cream was meant for you as well as for me; will you stay?”

Abruptly, she reverted to the uneasiness she’d exhibited upon her arrival. “Oh. No, thank you, but no—actually, I’m on my way to a charity banquet at the museum.”

“Understood.” He filled both bowls with ice cream.

She looked at him suspiciously. “If you understand, why are you still dishing out two bowls?”

Carefully turning his back so that the deaf wolf basking in front of the fan couldn’t read his lips, he said, “For Diefenbaker. I have no room in the freezer, it’s full of buffalo meat left here by, well—never mind, the freezer’s full and I’ll never finish this by myself. He pushed a bowl along the counter towards her, “Last chance to change your mind.”

She smiled. “Now that I think of it, the food at these banquets is generally pretty inedib—”

Someone pounded a brief tattoo at the door; loud, brash and confident.

“Come on in, Ray, it’s not locked.”

His best friend and partner threw open the door, then bent to pick up the large fan he’d brought with him. “Vecchio to the rescue—heeeell-ooo?” upon seeing Thatcher.

“Good evening, Detective Vecchio; I’m here in an official capacity only,” she answered back primly, “...and I was just leaving. Good evening, Constable.”

“Was it something I said?” Ray asked after the door shut behind her. “What is it with The Dragon Lady—she has to bring the office home with her, even when she’s in someone else’s home?” Fraser silently pushed the second bowl of ice cream towards him and Ray did a double-take, “Rudy’s Ice Cream Palace ice cream?” he enthused, seeing the name on the brown paper bag. “Just in time for ice cream—is my timing great, or what?”

Fraser sighed. “Your timing is, as ever, impeccable, Ray.”

“Didya have to get vanilla? It’s so boring.”

The Mountie just stared at him.

“What?”

“Nothing, Ray.” At that moment, a green glint caught his eye. “Oh, dear.”

Hoping it wasn’t what he thought it was, Fraser went to the chair by the window, the one he’d moved to allow the Inspector to plug in the fan. There it was—her brooch, where it had undoubtedly fallen when she’d bent over. He held it up for his friend to see.

“Oh, jeez, not that damned thing again,” Ray moaned upon seeing it.

“It would appear the Inspector has not yet gotten the clasp fixed. That was very remiss of her.”

Ray snorted. “Well, it’s pretty ugly—I think she’s trying to lose it, myself.”

Fraser looked out the window to see the Inspector’s car pulling away. “I’d better call in to her voice mail and leave a message. I’ll try to get through to the museum, too; she’s heading over for a banquet they’re holding there.” He went to use Mr. Mustafi’s phone.

“I’ll put your ice cream in the... hey! What’s all this meat doin’ wall-to-wall in your freezer?”

* * *

As all thieves are said to do, so this one returned to the scene of the crime. A true master of the ‘four-toed’ discount, Riley once again infiltrated by way of the still-propped-open window. He stood motionless in the dark room, nose up and sniffing. There was something different about the apartment. For one thing, the salmon was gone, darn it. But more importantly, a great hum filled the room, and a wind moved his whiskers and the fur on his back. It was a bit confusing because it was so loud, he couldn’t hear anything else in the apartment, which he didn’t like. But he had unfinished business with this place. He had not come away with anything tangible to commemorate the original break-in, and that had to be remedied.

The little gray-and-brown tabby nosed about a bit where the salmon had been, but found only a bowl of water, from which he drank, then levitated himself to the kitchen table for a quick look-see. And there it was... the Pretty-Shiny of his dreams. It was beautiful; it sparkled even in the dim light of the street lamp outside. It was heavy, yet compact, in his mouth when he picked it up, just the way he liked his Pretty-Shinies....

Suddenly, an enormous shape launched itself at him out of nowhere, frightening him out of his wits and nearly knocking him off the table. Riley sprang to the window, jumping over a large fan as he went, the creature crashing into it behind him, slowing his attacker down long enough so that the little cat made good his escape.

The best part was—the best part other than escaping with life and limb, of course—the best part was, he’d been so terrified that he hadn’t even opened his mouth to yowl. He still carried the Pretty-Shiny of his dreams with him!

Riley disappeared down the fire-escape.

 

“Great Scott!”

Fraser had been deeply asleep when calamity struck and, to be fair, was also a bit groggy with the summer heat. He reached out for the reading lamp next to his bed, and managed to knock it over. He tried to sit up and found that there was a book lying on his chest, and that fell to the floor with a clatter, too. He sat up in bed and tried to collect his wits, but was not helped one bit when Diefenbaker threw himself onto the bed and onto his face, worrying at him with a cold, doggy nose. Since all the Mountie wore was a pair of starched boxer shorts, wolf-fur stuck to bare skin where ever he’d been sweating, which was pretty much all over.

“Diefenbaker—Diefenbaker! Get off me! I am not a salt-lick!” he pushed the wolf away and cast about next to the bed for the lamp. Finding it, he turned it on and placed it back where it belonged, on the table next to the bed. He remembered that he couldn’t sleep, and had tried reading his book, the subject of which was a cold New Year’s Eve in London, in the faint hope that it would distract him from the reality of a hot summer night in Chicago. It had worked, and he’d managed to switch off the lamp just before he’d fallen asleep. Then an ungodly noise had awakened him.

Righting Ray’s fan, which seemed undamaged, Fraser found the kitchen a shambles. The wolf beside him bristled and growled. “Diefenbaker, for heaven’s sake, have you been having nightmares again? There’s nothing here. See? There. Is. Nothing. Here.” Fraser straightened the table and picked up a kitchen chair that had been knocked over, then re-filled Diefenbaker’s water bowl. He was about to get a mop, when he realized how correct his last statement was—there was nothing there. Inspector Thatcher’s brooch was not on the table where he’d left it. It had not fallen on any of the chairs. It was not on the floor. It was not under the refrigerator or the stove.

There was a glistening pawprint on the melamine tabletop. No, two pawprints. Wolf spoor. Oh, God.

The wolf whined. He appeared to be... drooling.

“Diefenbaker? You didn’t...? Did you...? Did you eat Inspector Thatcher’s pin?

* * *

It was shortly after dawn, and Riley watched His Person make breakfast from an excellent vantage point—the top of the refrigerator. He stared hard and hungrily at the sizzling bacon, but kept his distance. A good thief bides his time and waits for the perfect moment to make his move.

The Female One entered the kitchen, closely followed by her mate, who carried a large box. “Aunt Em? Up so early?” The Two did not notice him on top of the fridge.

“Yes, dear. Are you kids hungry? Would you and Jeep like me to throw on some more bacon and eggs? It’s no trouble.”

The Male One looked hopeful, but the Female One’s words caused his face to fall. “No, we never touch pork. We’re trying to avoid animal fats.” Foolish humans.

“Up to you,” said His Person genially, dropping the sizzling bacon strips onto a dish lined with paper towel. She expertly slid her sunny-side up eggs onto a plate, arranged the bacon around the two orange yokes, then made herself comfortable at the kitchen table. Pulling her reading glasses from her housecoat pocket, she perused the front page of the morning paper as she ate. Riley’s stomach growled.

“Um...,” said the Female One. “I suppose you’re wondering what we’re doing with this box?”

The Male One turned to look at his mate as if she had suddenly gone mad, but His Person didn’t even take her eyes off her paper. “Hmmm? What did you say, Vivie, dear?” she spoke absently, following the story to page three with a rustle of newsprint.

“This box? It’s... er, a gift. Yes, a gift for a friend of mine. Someone I knew in college. She’s getting married,” continued the Female One, staring defiantly at the older woman who sat engrossed in the news. “We’re going to go over to UPS later and ship it out to her. She lives in, um, Kansas.”

The Male One looked as if he were about to pass out and held the box tight to his chest like drowning man clutching a life preserver.

“That’s sweet, dear,” said His Person, nibbling a crispy bacon strip. Oblivious, she was paying attention to neither her irritating relative, nor to the feral jungle beast who lay in wait on top of the Frigidaire. The fearsome Riley crouched, readying himself for the leap, his backside and tail twitching with anticipation.

“Yes, Crate & Barrel was having a sale,” continued the Female One. It seemed she was beginning to enjoy herself; as she got more engrossed in her own tale, her voice took on a ring of confidence. “I got her a crystal ice bucket. Hand-blown in Romania. Very simple and classic, I’m sure she’ll love it. She always did like giving parties when we were in college together.”

With a little sigh, His Person finally looked up and away from her breakfast, to smile at the Female One, saying, “It sounds as if it’s the perfect gift for your friend, then, dear; so why don't you—”

She never finished the sentence, because it was for this precise moment that Riley had been laying in wait. He dove from the top of the fridge to land squarely on top of the box the Male One held tight around the middle, using it as a spring-board to the kitchen table, scattering plates and snatching a strip of bacon as the box shot through the Male One’s arms to the floor like a watermelon seed squeezed between thumb-and-forefinger. The crash-tinkle of shattering glass, the high-pitched scream of the Female One, and the inarticulate bellow of the Male One followed the little cat burglar as he raced from the kitchen to a hiding place on the second floor, where, with little moans of pleasure, he devoured his prize.

Back in the kitchen, the humans cleaned up the debris. Or, at least, Riley’s Human cleaned up the debris. The other two stood dazed; Jeep white-faced, half-holding his arms before him as if in memory of the package he once clutched; Vivian shaking the box to hear the sound of many bits of glass shifting around inside.

“Don’t worry, Viv,” sighed her aunt, sweeping up a broken teacup. “I’ll stop by Crate & Barrel today and pick up another ice bucket for you. But honestly, dear, it’s obvious you didn’t pack that gift properly. A lot worse than just hitting the floor happens to a box once it’s in the mail, you know. In fact, why don’t you give me your friend’s address, I’ll have the professionals at the store wrap up an ice bucket and ship it for you.”

 _Blink. Blink._ Vivian slowly came to her senses. “That’s all right,” she stated in an unnaturally calm voice. “I’ll take care of it. Nothing for you to worry about at all, Auntie Em. Come along, Jeep.” She turned as if in a dream and left the kitchen, box in hand, her mate in tow.

‘Auntie Em’ stopped sweeping long enough to stare after the departing pair. “Now what are those scamps up to this time?” she asked herself. She’d been paying a bit more attention to what was going on around her than was immediately apparent to the casual viewer.

She’d definitely keep her eyes open from here on in.

* * *

Fraser’s early-morning call to Ray was just frantic enough to motivate him over to the apartment at what he considered an ungodly hour on the one Saturday morning in the month of June he had off. Even at its lowest point, the temperature in the night had been unbearable—and it had shot up yet another ten degrees with the sunrise. Ray, as cool as he could manage in a multi-colored Hawaiian shirt and shorts, threw himself bodily onto Fraser’s couch and cracked the top of the iced coffee he’d picked up along the way for a long drink of that healing, caffeinated beverage. He looked at his Mountie friend and had to suppress a laugh—the closest the Canadian could come to dealing with the heat was a gray tee-shirt with “Property of the R.C.M.P.” stamped on it in red and a pair of jeans—full-length jeans, not even cut-offs. Well, at least, for once, Fraser was actually sweating—good enough for him. Ray snorted in heat-weary disdain and relaxed into the couch, letting the cold-and-caffeine combo work its magic.

Fraser took the opportunity of his silence to explain in full what had happened the night before and his fears that Diefenbaker had swallowed the Inspector’s pin.

Ray threw back his head and laughed. “What, you never heard the old saying, ‘This, too, shall pass’?”

“That is a most amusing pun, Ray, but it won’t help me explain to Inspector Thatcher that her beloved brooch is even now making its way through Diefenbaker’s digestive tract.”

“So, don’t tell her.”

“Ray! That would be dishonest! Besides, last night I left a message for her on her voice mail that I’d found it and would give it to her when next I saw her.”

“So, she can’t get in touch with you until you walk into work first thing Monday morning—I begin to see a method to your madness, this not-having-a-phone thing, which, in case I haven’t mentioned it before, is generally pretty annoying.”

The two law-enforcement officers stared at the wolf in question, who sat on a pile of newspapers, whining unhappily.

“C’mon, Fraze; a watched wolf never... well, you know.”

“Understood. Besides, it’s 9 o’clock. The veterinarian’s office should be open now.” He got up to go to Mr. Mustafi’s, only to find Ray’s mobile phone being held in his face. He took it. “Thanks, Ray.”

“I can’t believe you’re over-reacting like this.”

“I’m not over-reacting, Ray. It only just occurred to me that the pin, with its loose clasp, could open inside of Diefenbaker.”

Ray sat up. Apparently this unpleasant possibility hadn’t occurred to him until now, either.

* * *

Two hours and seventy-five American dollars later, Diefenbaker had been thoroughly X-rayed and was found to be free and clear of any brooch-eating wrong-doing. They took him home.

“Well, you might have said something!” complained the Mountie to the back of the angry wolf’s head once they returned to the apartment. “Ray, you talk to him.”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘Ray-you-talk-to-him’? What makes you think I’m talkin’ to you? I can’t believe I just spent $75 to X-ray this animal and that stupid pin wasn’t even inside him.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that. Diefenbaker was upset yesterday. Indeed, as I said, he knocked over a chair and your fan at around three in the morning—I assumed it was one of his nightmares; there were no indications that anyone else had been in the apartment. It would appear I might have been wrong about that. I might well have had a thief in my apartment last night.”

“Something else to apologize to Dief about.”

“Please, don’t give him any ideas. Diefenbaker! Look at me! We’re going to track the thief!” the Mountie held the deaf wolf’s head and enunciated the words very carefully in hopes that the hunt might focus his attention on something other than his hurt feelings. “We need to find the piece of jewelry that was on the kitchen table last night. Find the one who took it, Diefenbaker. Please.”

“Yeah, come on, Dief—Lassie would do it, even if Timmy had just dissed her,” added Ray helpfully.

Grudgingly, Diefenbaker turned to the kitchen table, sniffing. He trotted over to the window, and jumped out. Fraser followed.

Ray ran for the door, muttering, “Oh, yeah. I hate it when this happens.”

By the time Ray dashed down three flights of stairs, Fraser and Diefenbaker had made their way down the fire escape and were halfway up the block. As Ray had wanted to see how the wolf would negotiate the fire escape ladders, he was disappointed, but still game, and he charged up the street after them.

Their first stop was the Lincoln Street Fish Market—or, more precisely, the dumpster in the alley behind the Lincoln Street Fish Market. Dief executed a perfect leap into the dumpster and began rustling amongst the black-plastic garbage bags, several of which had been ripped open, exposing day-old fish guts to the hot June sun.

“Now, that is disgusting!” yelped Ray, rather predictably. This time even Fraser wasn’t climbing into the dumpster. Diefenbaker nosed about a bit, then jumped out the other side, racing pell-mell around the corner, the two law enforcement officers in close pursuit.

They ran a brief tour of almost the entire neighborhood, but Diefenbaker never showed enough interest in anything long enough to stop. Through back alleys, over cars, around playgrounds they went, until Ray thought that heat-stroke was definitely in his future, and soon. “There are twenty-four bars and sixteen liquor stores in this neighborhood! What, this guy never stopped for a beer?” he complained, puffing wearily. He was ignored.

The next place they stopped at was the front porch of a shabby-looking private home. Two boys in tank tops, baggy shorts, and high-top sneakers sat in the shade on the stoop, looking too tired to play even though it was only early afternoon. One of them had a Super-Soaker water rifle held loosely in his hands. Diefenbaker ran up the stairs and nosed at the front-porch railings for a bit, ignoring the boys’ calls to him. Ray staggered up to the porch, leaning one hand on it, the other hand holding the stitch in his side. “I’m dyin’!” he moaned.

“Hiya, Mr. Fraser,” the boy holding the water gun greeted him. “Watcha doin’?”

“Diefenbaker is tracking someone who took something out of my apartment,” the Mountie told them. “Have you seen anyone suspicious hanging about, Ramone?”

“Jus’ this guy here,” said Ramone, pointing at Ray. “Is he a weirdo or somethin’?”

“No, he’s a police officer,” said Fraser, and the two boys glanced at each other with a ‘that explains it’ look in their eyes.

“Kid,” gasped Ray, “What is it—Ramone? Ramone. I will give you five bucks if you shoot me with your water gun. Repeatedly.”

Ramone’s eyebrows shot up at this. “We need six bucks for both of us to get into the matinee at the Cineplex,” he said, cannily.

“What’s playing?” asked his friend.

Ramone snorted at the foolishness of the question. “Who cares?”

“Yeah, I getcha—air-conditioning,” Ray said. “Wait a minute. There’s just water in that thing, right?”

“Yeah, there’s jus’ water; what else would there be?” the boy looked outraged at Ray’s suggestion that there might be anything but water in his water gun.

“When I was a kid, we used to spike our water guns with soap or perfume or, better yet, grape juice,” Ray smiled at the old memory, even gave a chuckle at the thought of Frannie’s face that one time.... of course, he’d been grounded for a week and had had to buy her a new blouse out of his allowance when Ma couldn’t get the purple stains out of the old one, but it had been worth it. “Oh, yeah, grape juice. We were totally rotten kids.”

The two boys looked as if they’d had an epiphany. Apparently doctoring the water in the gun had never occurred to them before, and they looked as if they were considering the endless possibilities that lay before them.

“Now, Ray; I really don’t think—” began Fraser, but the boys excitedly cut him off.

“Thanks, mister!” Ramone pulled the Super-Soaker gun site up, aimed it at Ray’s loud Hawaiian shirt, and let loose a volley of blasts, soaking him thoroughly. “Bye, Mr. Fraser; bye, Diefenbaker!” They ran into the house, slamming the screen door behind them.

“Oh, that was great! I think I’m gonna live,” said Ray, throwing himself down on the stoop the boys had just vacated. His shirt was plastered to his body, but he didn’t care. “Hey, they forgot the six bucks.”

“I don’t think they’re going to spend the afternoon in the theater, Ray,” said the Mountie, a worried look in his eye. “Juvenile Hall, possibly, but the theater?” he shook his head ‘no.’ “I really wish you hadn’t ‘shared,’ Ray.”

Ray ignored his friend, looking over his shoulder at the wolf who waited in the shade, his tongue lolling out of his mouth with the heat. “Okay, Big Bad Wolf. You look like you been huffing-and-puffing on the brick house. Where to next?”

Diefenbaker went down the stairs at a more sedate pace, and crossed the street to another private house directly across the way. It was a genteel brick building only beginning to go to seed; there were lace curtains in the windows, which were sparkling-clean, but the wooden frames hadn’t been painted in quite a while. A small, decorative window of white-and-green stained glass stood open on the second floor at the side of the house, and the wolf paced back and forth beneath it, whining and barking sharply. There was a tall, old oak tree next to the house, and both men could see that a branch curved around to the window, forming a natural bridge. The window looked too small for an adult to squeeze through, but a child? Possibly. They went to the front door.

“There’s only one name on the doorbell, Ray,” said the Mountie. “E.A. Kinsella.”

“E.A. Kinsella?” echoed Ray. “I know that name!”

“Ah. Someone you’ve arrested in the past?”

“No! My eighth-grade English teacher!” Ray said, ringing the door-bell. “She’d be, what, in her seventies by now.”

“I hope you are not going to accuse your eighth-grade English teacher of petty theft, Ray!” said the Mountie in scandalized tones, but Ray just waved him to silence. Someone was peering at them through the small stained-glass window inset into the front door at about eye-level.

***

The woman who opened the door did look to be in her early seventies, a vigorous-looking older woman. She had sharp, faded China-blue eyes; short, white hair that curled around her ears, and wore a sleeveless housecoat. She peered at them through the screen door. “Yes? Can I help you boys?”

“It is you!” cried Ray. “Erminia Antoinette Kinsella!”

“Heavens!” said the woman, “No one’s called me ‘Erminia’ since my mother died; oh, my—could it really have been fifteen years ago?” She shook her head sadly at the thought.

“It’s me! Raymond Vecchio! Do you remember me, Mrs. Kinsella?”

“Remember you? Of course I remember you—you were a terrible student!” she laughed at that, either to show she was just kidding, or more likely to show she didn’t hold a grudge.

“I’m a detective in the Chicago P.D. now,” Ray said proudly, pulling out his badge to show her.

She looked properly impressed. “Good! Always go with your strengths, and there’s not much creative writing to be done in police work—one would hope!”

“Yes, ma’am. And this is a friend of mine, Benny Fraser....”

“Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, at your service, ma’am.” Ray could almost swear the Mountie had clicked his heels, despite the fact that he was wearing running shoes.

“You’re the young man who lives a block over in that apartment building, aren’t you? One of the neighborhood boys who cuts my grass spoke of you, with reference to your coaching his softball team.” She nodded at him approvingly. Apparently whatever had been said was complimentary. “You two get yourselves out of this heat! I have a pitcher of sun-tea in the ‘fridge; come in here and tell me what’s going on.”

“Ma’am? We have a wolf with us,” interrupted Fraser, indicating Diefenbaker, who sat at his feet, fretting. “He’s usually better behaved than this; something seems to be bothering him.”

“I shouldn’t wonder. He probably smells my cat. I’m afraid he can’t come in here,” she said regretfully. “Can you trust him to ‘stay’? I can get him a bowl of water and I have some tuna, if he likes that.”

Fraser looked down at Diefenbaker. “Tuna,” he enunciated clearly, “you will get tuna if you just stay here.” The wolf sat. Apparently, it was a deal.

“He doesn’t always do as instructed, but I think for tuna, he’ll stay in the general vicinity.”

A few moments later, the two law-enforcement officers found themselves ushered into Mrs. Kinsella’s sitting room. Fraser made himself comfortable in a corner of the sofa, but Ray perched on the edge, trying to make as little contact with the cushions as possible. His shirt had stopped dripping but was still soaked through. Scrutinizing his surroundings with great interest, Ray pulled the garishly-colored fabric away from his body and shook it, trying to hurry the drying process along. He could hear the hum of an air conditioner doing its job in the window behind the couch and appreciated the wonderfully frigid blast of air it generated.

The Kinsella sitting room was pleasant, though the furnishings were a bit old-fashioned—overstuffed, tufted chairs, a marble-topped coffee table, a side-board table, and heavy drapes in a Florentine rose-on-white brocade—in other words, exactly what he would have expected in the home of his ex-schoolteacher. But the feature that he found most remarkable about the room was an arresting array of an even half-dozen antique electric lamps set in what were obviously carefully chosen places of honor.

And what incredible lamps they were!—the lampshades crafted of exquisitely-pieced-together stained glass and bronze in pleasing geometric or floral patterns, the body of each lamp made of fine, hand-carved wood and worked bronze. None of the lamps were lit, yet the jewel-like colors glowed with an inner fire. Ray was impressed, even though when it came to furnishings, he didn’t know a... well, pardon me, but he didn’t know a hawk from a hassock.

Mrs. Kinsella came in with a tray bearing glasses and a full pitcher, as well as a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. She set about serving her guests, fussing at them.

“I see you’ve noticed my lamps—lovely, aren’t they? My father was a craftsman for the designer and architect Frank Lloyd Wright from 1915 through the early '30s—in fact, Daddy was one of the finest stained-glass artisans of his time. Indeed, the Corletto Glass Company once rivaled Tiffany as the country’s premiere art-glass lamp-and-window shop.” Her eyes narrowed when she finally got a good look at her ex-pupil, peering at him through the glasses that hung on a chain about her neck. “Good heavens, Raymond; do you need a towel? However did you get so wet?” She clucked her tongue at him and handed him a tea-towel. “Here, dear. You know, I’m not a bit surprised you became a police officer—I remember how proud you were when you managed to find out what my first name was—a proper little detective you were already! You behaved as if you thought you actually had something on me after that!”

“Well, why do you teachers always think you have to hide stuff like that from us kids?” Ray complained as he mopped ineffectually at himself.

“‘Stuff like that’? You mean personal ‘stuff’ that isn’t any of your business?” she said good-naturedly, placing a few cookies on his plate.

“Mrs. Kinsella,” began Fraser, trying to bring them back to the point of the visit politely, “...do you, by any chance, have a relative staying with you? A young person, perhaps?”

“‘Young’ is a relative term, Mr. Fraser,” she said. With a resigned air, she made herself comfortable in a chintz-covered arm chair. “Oh, dear, I didn’t think this was just a visit with your old English teacher, Raymond. Are Vivian and Jeep in trouble?”

Ray noticed Fraser avoided answering her question directly. “Something was taken from my apartment late last night, a large green brooch belonging to my superior officer, by someone who climbed in at the window. We tracked the thief to... well, I’m sorry, ma’am, but Diefenbaker led us here. And he’s quite a good tracker, ma’am. Are we speaking of two children?”

Mrs. Kinsella looked relieved. “Oh, no! Though goodness knows, sometimes they behave as if they’re children. No, Vivian is my niece, and Jeep Rosado is her husband. They went to the store, to Crate & Barrel, I think. They came up from Minnesota; they’ve lived with me for about six months now, ostensibly to take care of me since I had my hip replacement. They’re in their thirties and both are quite out-of-condition—heaven knows, they eat enough of my food, they must have put on twenty pounds apiece since they moved in with me. The very thought of either of those two climbing in somebody’s window to steal a piece of jewelry is utterly laughable!”

Fraser nodded, apparently satisfied, but Ray would not be put off so easily. “Pardon me, Mrs. Kinsella, but can you think of any possible reason why your niece and her husband might have had some sort of contact with the thief?”

She shook her head—but what she said next was not at all what he expected her to say. “No. I wouldn’t believe they’d be that foolish. If they’d stolen something, it wouldn’t have been from some stranger’s apartment, it would be from me. And if they stole something from me, they certainly wouldn’t have a thief drop by to pick it up from them, they’d seek out a fence or a pawnbroker as far away from here as possible.”

Ray found himself rather shocked by the line of defense she chose for her relatives and found himself hoping that if someone ever had to defend him from charges of thievery, they’d find a nicer way to put it. Even “Vecchio’s a weasel, but he’s always been a stand-up weasel,” sounded like enthusiastic praise next to this. He would definitely be having a word with the Rosados when they surfaced. He posed another theory. “Mrs. Kinsella, you mentioned a kid who cuts your lawn? You said he knows Fraser, so there’s a connection. That’s a possibility.”

She looked doubtful. “Mario Gamez? A thief? I shouldn’t think so. Ridiculous.”

Ray threw up his hands—small world, wasn’t it?—but he had to agree, the idea of little Mario climbing through a window, let alone his hero Fraser’s window, to steal, was ludicrous.

Fraser apparently dismissed the possibility without a second thought. “You said you had a cat, Mrs. Kinsella. I know this sounds far-fetched, but is it possible your cat might have wandered into my apartment?”

“Oh, my, no!” she laughed at the idea. “Riley? Why, he’s even more of a stodgy homebody than my niece and her husband, I certainly don’t let him out. He’s practically a paper-weight; he sleeps twenty hours a day and spends the rest of the time begging for tidbits from me! Which, I’m sorry to say, I give him, I’m such a soft touch. He’s getting quite pudgy.”

At that moment, there was an uproar outside so loud it could be heard even over the hum of the air conditioner; barking, snarling, and shrieking, and what sounded like yelling from a small mob of children.

“Diefenbaker!” said Fraser, leaping to his feet, but before he could go to the front door, there was a crash from upstairs, then something could be heard clattering down the stairs in the hallway outside the sitting room, and a small brown blur flew through the door and under the chair Mrs. Kinsella sat in.

“Riley?!” gasped the ex-school-teacher.

“Riley,” said Fraser to Ray, who simply nodded in return, then went to the window. Pulling aside the curtain, he saw Ramone and his friend jumping up and down, the Super-Soaker in Ramone’s hands, Diefenbaker barking and dancing in excited circles around them.

Fraser joined him at the window, quirking his chin towards the sight of the two boys and the wolf. “Reminds me of the dance of victory Inuit warriors perform when they slay a walrus,” he said.

Mrs. Kinsella was on her knees by her arm chair, reaching under it. She pulled the terrified ball of brown fur from under the chair and held it to her protectively. “Riley? Oh, my poor little baby kitten-cat, what’s wrong?” she said in tones that strayed dangerously towards baby-talk, much to Ray’s amusement. “Why are you so damp, Riley?” She looked up, worry in her eyes, the hand not holding the cat against her out-stretched to the two men. “He’s... all wet and sticky,” she said, then looked down at her housecoat. “...and now, so am I.”

She seemed to be having difficulty rising, so the Mountie helped her to her feet, Riley ducking his head under her arm when Fraser approached. “May I?” he held her hand to his nose, then sniffed the only part of Riley that showed, which was his back.

Ray let the curtain drop. “Don’t you dare lick my teacher—and I don’t wanna see you licking that cat, either!” he moaned.

Fraser lifted an eyebrow at Ray, but obligingly rubbed his hand on the cat’s damp back. He sniffed at his finger, then licked it. “Grape juice,” he announced authoritatively.

“Why, yes; it is grape juice,” Mrs. Kinsella confirmed. “White grape juice.”

“White grape juice?” Ray shook his head at the folly of today’s youth.

“And good thing, too,” said Mrs. Kinsella, annoyance in her voice. “If it were purple grape juice, it would have stained my housecoat quite badly, you know.”

“Yes, Ray,” said Fraser. “They liked your suggestion, but they seem to have misunderstood the gist of the essential concept.”

“This is your fault, Raymond? Has nothing changed in over twenty years?” she _tsked_ at him.

“NO, this is not my fault! I didn’t tell those kids to go shooting grape juice at your cat!” yelled Ray, ignoring Fraser’s look of disapproval.

But after over forty years teaching in the Chicago Public School system, Mrs. Kinsella didn’t need a Mountie to protect her. “Don’t you dare raise your voice to me, young man,” she said in a low, chilling tone of voice that only nuns and schoolteachers can truly master. “Besides, you’re scaring Riley!” The animal huddled in her arms as if trying to physically meld with her.

Ray somehow managed to look grudgingly contrite. “Anyway,” he said in a much quieter tone, “I thought you said he didn’t go outside—this proves he does!”

She seemed honestly confused. “But that’s impossible. How could he?”

A trip to the upstairs bathroom and the answer was obvious. The small window was open, several of the glass jars of scented salt that had apparently once stood in the window lay dashed to bits on the tile, rose-scented bath salts in heaps all over the floor.

“Oh, dear, I suppose I shall have to get shutters,” said Mrs. Riley peering in from the hallway, still clutching Riley. He struggled, obviously wanting to get down. Fraser stepped around the broken glass and shut the window.

“I would suggest iron bars, for that ‘prison’ motif,” said Ray.

“Now that I think of it, he was quite a clever kitten!” mused Mrs. Kinsella. “Do you know he actually used to fetch? Like a little dog!” Riley finally wriggled free of his mistress’ arms. He jumped to the floor and disappeared down the stairs.

“Where’s he going?” asked Ray.

Mrs. Kinsella shrugged. “Oh, probably to hide out in his basket to sulk amongst his toys.”

“Fraser—you check out the basket. I’ll sweep up the bathroom.”

The Mountie looked surprised that his friend had opted for the physical labor. “That’s uncommonly good of you, Ray.”

“Not at all. I may get my finger cut by a piece of glass, but at least I won’t get savaged by a cat defending its turf.” Ray felt a momentary stab of guilt at the worried look that elicited on Fraser’s face, but, hey, it was The Dragon Lady’s ugly green pin! As far as he was concerned, that made it a Canadian problem. Not his.

Mrs. Kinsella shot him an exasperated look. “Oh, don’t you listen to Raymond, dear,” she consoled the Mountie, “Riley is a marshmallow and won’t give you any trouble whatsoever.”

Yeah, right. He knew from cats. Let the battle scars be on his best friend, where they belonged. Ray bent to start picking up bits of broken glass.

“...come along, I’ll show you Riley's basket.” She led Fraser away, like a warden leading a convict to the electric chair.

* * *

The Mountie lay on the floor on his stomach, his long legs poking out from under the side-board table in the sitting room, peering into the cat-basket that held Riley and, Fraser hoped, the object of the his desire. The cat-basket was a woven wicker affair, with only one circular opening. A pair of green, slanted eyes peered back at him from the darkness within, reminding him of the pin he sought.

“Grrrrrrrrrrrr....”

It was a menacing sound that did not leave the emotional state of the one who uttered it to the imagination. It really was quite amazing that such a small animal could make such a threatening noise, Fraser considered to himself. Hmmm, that growl must bounce around in the animal’s tiny chest cavity to give it that deep-throated, almost echoing vibrato. He wondered idly if the sound quality was in some way related to the purring noise felines made as well.

“Grrrrrrrrrrrr....”

In civilization’s long history, felines were the last of the animals to be domesticated, and were, in fact, only semi-domesticated—he remembered reading that in the Encyclopedia Britannica in his grandmother’s library. It would appear, at least anecdotally, to be true.

“Grrrrrrrrrrrr....”

Mrs. Kinsella had told him to wait a moment while she got a broom and dustpan for Ray, that she’s be right back to check out Riley’s hideout for him, but he couldn’t let a senior citizen who had had a hip replacement done sometime in the last six months or so get down on the floor and brave the teeth and claws of this angry creature, now could he?

“Ahem; here, kitty, kitty,” Fraser stated in a clear, authoritative voice. He reached out a tentative hand to the opening and was rewarded with a snarl and a swipe of claws that narrowly missed his knuckles. Good job he’d pulled his hand back so swiftly, he didn’t have a great deal of experience with felines and....

“Hey! Who the hell are you?!” an angry female voice broke into his ruminations.

Realizing how foolish he must look, he backed out from under the sideboard carefully so as not to tip over the lamp upon it, banging his head sharply on the drop-leaf for all his caution, then climbed to his feet, rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head. A short, chubby woman wearing pink shorts and a striped tank top stood there belligerently, hands on hips, her lips compressed in a thin, angry line. “Well?” she said, obviously waiting for his explanation.

“Ah! Ma’am. Constable Benton Fraser at your service. I’m here with Detective Vecchio of the 27th district. You must be Ms. Vivian Rosado. We need to have a word with you, ma’am, and with your husband.” It occurred to him that it might be a good idea to explain what he’d been doing on the floor, so he gestured vaguely at the table the cat basket was under and said, “I’m investigating a theft.”

Much to Fraser’s astonishment, Ms. Rosado’s face crumbled at his words and she wailed, “Oh, my God; oh, my god! Jeeeeep! The cops are here!”

A stout little man with lank, black hair and a mustache, also dressed in shorts and a tank top, came stumbling into the room from, Fraser assumed, the kitchen—indeed, he still clutched a large club sandwich, a single bite taken out of it, in his hands. The man stared at him with round, frightened eyes, the crumbs clinging to his bristling mustache giving him the look of a startled beaver caught in the act of chewing through a tree.

“Y-y-you a cop?!” gasped the little man, his face turning red.

“Um, well, yes, sir, but I don’t have any juris—” began Fraser.

“Vivian! This is your fault! You couldn’t just do the old switcheroo; nooo—you had to make up some big story about it!” The little man actually shook his sandwich threateningly at her.

Ms. Rosado immediately ceased her incoherent histrionics and launched a counter-attack upon the man Fraser quickly inferred was her husband, though they had yet to be formally introduced. “You’re the idiot who let that cat break the lamp! We could have just returned it and maybe she would of let us off the hook, but noooo! It’s in pieces! And that's your fault!” she wailed.

“Excuse me, sir, ma’am; if you would only allow me to exp—,” Fraser began, only to be interrupted yet again, this time by the arrival of Mrs. Kinsella, a ceramic jar tucked in the crook of her arm. “That’s enough of that now, young lady!” the ex-teacher spoke sharply to her niece, her years in the Chicago Public School System once again coming to the fore. She dropped the jar onto the side-board table with a definitive thunk of anger, causing the lamp on the table to jolt.

A very annoyed-looking Ray came clumping down the stairs to see what the altercation was about. He held the tea towel he’d used earlier to dry himself tightly wrapped around his right hand. The towel had minute streaks of fresh blood on it, so the Mountie was able to quickly deduce Ray’s prediction he would cut himself on the broken glass had proven correct. His friend looked over the miniature riot gathered in the living room, then threw back his head and bellowed, “SHUTTUP!”

The hysterical woman shot Ray a very dirty look, then hiccuped at her aunt, “I can’t believe you would call the cops on your own flesh-and-blood!”

“Good Lord! You mean you two really did steal this young man’s brooch?” said Mrs. Kinsella, honestly surprised.

Ms. Rosado’s face echoed that surprise, and Fraser, putting two-and-two together, rushed in to clear the matter up as best he could.

“No, ma’am,” he said, “I think your niece is trying to tell you that she and her husband stole one of your lamps.” He held the electrical cord of the lamp that stood on the side-board table up so they all could see. “This is a modern cord, not the sort of cord used in the early 1900’s, when this lamp was supposed to have been created.”

Ray sighed. “So, so what? They replaced the cord when it got frayed! Big deal.”

“Well, Ray, there’s also this small plaque identifying this lamp as a genuine reproduction sanctioned by the Frank Lloyd Wright Architectural Foundation.” Fraser tilted the lamp to the side so that all could see the etched-brass plaque on the bottom.

“Okay, that I’ll buy,” nodded Ray. He smiled in a somewhat insincere fashion at Ms. Rosado, who gulped at him, alarmed. “So, lady. Allow me to read you and your husband over there your rights.” The married couple clutched at each other, both looking as if they’d faint at any moment.

Mrs. Kinsella gave an embarrassed little cough. “Oh, dear; Raymond, that won’t be necessary.”

“What do you mean, ‘that won’t be necessary’?” Ray said in exasperated tones, “I’m guessing these lamps are probably worth a mint, right? I seem to remember you always telling us kids that we had to shoulder our responsibilities and pay the piper when we got caught doing wrong—this woman here, a blood relation to you, just robbed you. And you’re going to let her off just like that?”

“As a policeman, Raymond, I shouldn’t have to teach you that you cannot judge a case without first ascertaining all of the facts. I’m certainly very angry at her—I’m angry with you both,” she turned on the two, whose faces revealed an even mix of relief, fear, and guilt. “But they’ve replaced what they stole with a lamp of equal value... you see, the lamp they took was not, in fact, an original.”

“WHAT?!?” chorused the married couple.

Fraser moved about the room. “And neither is this one, nor this one,” he confirmed, checking two of the lamps closely. “Are they all merely fine reproductions, ma’am?”

She shrugged. “Each time I sold a lamp, I stipulated that it be replaced by a copy as part of the sale. I do so enjoy how very pretty they are,” she said. “I sold my first lamp when I got married in the early 50s, and we bought this house with the money. The last one went some twelve years ago.” The retired teacher gently brushed the top of the nearest lamp with her finger, as if checking for dust, smiling. “Ironically, it wasn’t until after the last sale that father’s lamps increased in value up to six figures at auction houses like Sotheby’s and Christie’s.”

Mr. Rosado collapsed gracelessly onto the couch, his sandwich forgotten at his side, crumbs all over the upholstery.

“S-s-six figures?” stuttered Ms. Rosado, who had apparently gotten over her fear of arrest. “That’s a fortune! You sold my legacy, Aunt Em? How could you?”

Ray snorted his disgust at this, and Fraser surmised he was a bit put off by the young woman’s presumptuousness. He was a bit put off by her behavior as well, which was why he kept his council about a second revelation he quite suddenly gleaned from the surrounding lamps.

But the retired teacher was having none of that from her niece. “This isn’t yours until I’m dead, dear. Until then, it’s my property, to dispose of as I will,” she said. “Besides, the last lamp was sold to pay for your college tuition, books, rooming costs. Self-sufficiency was supposed to be your legacy.”

“Good one, Mrs. Kinsella,” praised Ray. “So, you sure we can’t do anything with these two for you?”

The retired teacher shrugged. “Unnecessary. They were just leaving.”

“Leaving?” Ms. Rosado looked stricken. “You mean you want us to leave your house, Auntie Em?”

“I’d like you to leave my city, if you would be so kind, dear,” confirmed her aunt.

“Jeeeep!” wailed the young woman, “what are we gonna do?!”

The little man on the couch looked blank a moment, then blinked and pulled his tattered sandwich lovingly to his chest. He spoke. “Well, I dunno about you, Viv, but first I’m gonna get a soda to go with my grinder. Then, I’m going back to Minneapolis. You want to come, good. You don’t want to come—well, that’s okay, too.”

He got up and tottered back in the direction of the kitchen. After a brief, panicked look around the room, finding no sympathy in the faces that surrounded her, Vivian followed closely after him.

* * *

Mrs. Kinsella smiled. Fraser’s worry was somewhat alleviated at the sight of that smile—she was relieved at her relations’ imminent departure. He knew they were sneak thieves, but he didn’t like the idea of the old woman, alone in the house except for her cat. Yet she seemed at ease with the turn of events.

Waiting a few moments to make certain the Rosados were well-and-truly out of ear shot, Fraser leaned in the ex-teacher’s direction. “What are you planning on doing with that last, genuine lamp, Mrs. Kinsella?” he inquired confidentially, indicating an elegant blue-and-yellow stained glass lamp tucked into the most shadowy corner of the room. His ‘second revelation’ had been that only five of the half-dozen lamps were, in fact, copies.

Ray caught on quickly. “You mean you fibbed, Mrs. Kinsella?” he whispered, disbelief that his ex-teacher would lie warring with delight. Delight won out. “Cool.”

She was unmoved by his teasing. “Not at all, dear—when I made reference to ‘the last sale,’ I meant just that. It was the last lamp I’d sold, not the last lamp I owned. Yes, I still have one of daddy’s lamps left. Very observant, young man.”

“What will you do, ma’am?” pursued Fraser, interested. “Will you leave it to Ms. Rosado as her legacy?”

“No, dear. I was going to, but not any more. So, you see, Raymond, there will be a measure of punishment for Vivian. Though I wouldn’t want to be around when she finds out, I don’t think my eardrums could take it.” She sank into her armchair, as if tired by recent events, and took a cookie from the platter she’d brought in earlier. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll investigate the possibilities of selling it at one of the auction houses in New York City after all. This house really is too much for me to handle, and the neighborhood has become rather dangerous for someone getting on in years. Besides, all of my friends have moved to places like Arizona or Florida. I suppose I shall follow them to where it’s warm 365 days of the year.” She sighed, then nibbled the cookie.

Fraser knelt next to her chair. “I’d say the proceeds from the sale of an original Frank Lloyd Wright lamp would be more than adequate to fund such a life-choice,” he confirmed. “Please remember that I live one block away and am available to help you, whatever you decide to do. And I’m sure Mario and the rest of the lads on the softball team would be pleased to aid you in your packing effort, should you decide a move is in your best interests.”

Ray nodded in agreement. “And I think we ought to stick around a bit until a certain dynamic duo is off the premises, their house keys out of their pockets and in your hand,” he said, “assuming you don’t mind putting up with us hanging around a couple of hours, I mean.” He peeked under the towel wrapped around his hand and seemed pleased by what he saw, despite the multitude of iodine markings. Apparently the bleeding had stopped, because he folded the towel up and dropped it on the side-table with a satisfied air.

“Oh my goodness!” said Mrs. Kinsella at a sudden thought. “I almost forgot in all the excitement! You wanted to check Riley’s basket for your brooch, didn’t you! That’s why you’re here, after all.”

“Well, admittedly, it’s something of a long-shot, ma’am,” said Fraser. “But one likes to be thorough. I think if Ray would just pull that table away from the wall, giving me clear access to where the animal’s gone to ground; I can just grasp it by the back of the neck with a swift motion, and—”

Mrs. Kinsella picked up the ceramic jar she’d brought in earlier, upon which Fraser could see the words ‘Cat from Hell’ printed in bright red. She shook it, a noise like a maraca resulting from this action. “Riiiii-leeeee!” she called out in a light, musical voice as she shook the jar.

“Prrrrrrrt?” came from under the side-board table, and an inquisitive, whiskered face popped out, green eyes wide.

“Crunchies, Riley,” she said invitingly. The rest of the cat followed the face and soon Riley was winding his way around and around her ankles. “I put Hill’s Dry Diet for Felines in this jar,” she explained. “He’d sell his soul for dry cat food, but I prefer he eat canned, so I use this as a treat. Also to get him to come when called. No mean feat, that; he is a cat, after all.”

Fraser raised his eyebrows at Ray, who merely made an ‘after you’ gesture towards the table. The Mountie dropped to his knees, reached under the table and pulled out the wicker cat basket. Soon, he had the contents of the basket spread out over the floor. It was a considerable haul.

Riley’s loot included: a blue baby bootie; a plastic hoop earring; a knitted brown-and-orange snowflake-patterned glove, size 8; a cut-crystal decanter stopper; the daisy-wheel off a printer; a lipstick in Ravishing Red; a metal box of ‘curiously strong’ peppermints; a porcelain doll’s head, no hair, one eye; a toothbrush; a short, thick length of chain, three links; a heart-shaped cookie-cutter; a teapot lid; a miniature jar of marmalade of the sort you get in restaurants; a naked G.I. Joe with bendable knees and sure-grip hands; an ornate pair of sterling silver sugar tongs (“Oh! I wondered where my grandmother’s sugar tongs got to!” exclaimed Mrs. Kinsella); a desiccated cicada that Fraser mistook for a carved scarab for a moment; an empty saltshaker in the shape of a flamingo; a pom-pom off a ski cap; a 3-inch tall figurine of a shepherdess holding a lamb; a silver key (“Honda Civic, 1993, if I’m not mistaken,” said Fraser knowledgeably; “Oh, yeah? What color was it, smart guy?” asked Ray); a child-proof capped bottle of prescription Motrin, three months past expiration date; a TV remote; a striped bow-tie; a battered Ray Steven’s ‘The Streak’ CD disk; a Bigelow tea bag, Earl Gray, still in its foil packet; a ‘Godzilla for President’ button (“There’s something you don’t see everyday,” said Ray, appropriating it for his nephew); a refrigerator magnet in the shape of a tiny bagel with ‘googly’ eyes and a felt hat glued to it; a Visa card belonging to a Mr. Wayne P. Teitelbaum; a small, plastic starship Enterprise, one nacelle broken off; a spool of purple thread; a black chess piece, the rook; a pocket flashlight, still working; a red Styrofoam Christmas tree ornament (“Jesus! Look at all this crap!” said Ray, “how the hell did he fit himself into that basket?); a Lucite bangle-bracelet; a small, unidentifiable metal object; a poker chip; and a yellow plastic wind-up toy in the shape of a duck... and that was it, apparently.

“That can’t be it!” protested Ray, hovering.

Fraser shook out the plaid blanket that lined the basket. There was nothing else.

Ray threw his hands in the air in frustration. “Man, I was so sure, once you started pulling that old junk outa there!”

Sighing, the Mountie wound up the duck and set it free—Riley instantly stopped rubbing his face on Mrs. Kinsella’s ankles and attacked the toy viciously, sending it out of the room with one swipe of his paw, then following it at a run. They could hear the cat skittering about the hallway’s parquet floor, bouncing the duck off the walls.

“Well...,” said Fraser rather forlornly. “It was a good try, Ray.”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘it was a good try, Ray’! Look at all this junk, Benny! Proof positive that that damned cat took that stupid brooch!”

“I tend to agree,” said Mrs. Kinsella, shaking her head. “I had no idea I had so many thieves under my roof! Oh, don’t worry, dear, I’ll keep my eyes open and I’m sure, eventually....”

Riley came roaring back into the room, chasing his toy and sending it swooping across the floor at warp speed, flinging his body after it in an orgy of destructive energy....

Fraser looked down at the flurry of activity... and saw, out of the corner of his eye, the cat batting at something green-and-silver, which slid across the floor and disappeared under Mrs. Kinsella’s arm chair....

“Hey! Did you see that!” yelped Ray.

The two men dove for the chair, almost overturning it in their enthusiasm and frightening Riley, who jumped to the back of the couch, both a ridge of fur along his back and his tail fluffed. They ignored him and scrabbled about under the chair’s dust-ruffle.

It was Fraser who found Inspector Meg Thatcher’s green garnet brooch first. He pulled it from the darkness and liberated it from the dust-bunny that held it captive, then held it aloft in triumph for all to see.

“Oh, my! That certainly is ugly, isn’t it, dear,” said Mrs. Kinsella in dismay.

“No, ma’am,” disagreed Fraser, smiling with the joy that comes with a heavy weight being lifted from one’s shoulders. “No, I assure you, it is a very attractive brooch, indeed. Thank you, ma’am.”

* * *

By the time the Rosados had packed their belongings and been seen off the premises, night had fallen; and with the darkness came a cool front, breaking the heat wave that had held the city of Chicago in its grip for days. A steady pitter-patter of rain hit the pavement, which steamed gently.

“Thank God,” said Ray, pulling up to Fraser’s apartment building. “This saves me a couple a bucks. I was on the verge of getting the Riv hand-waxed. Nothin’ like waxin’ the Riv to make it rain.”

“Interesting, Ray,” Fraser said, checking the integrity of the plastic wrap on the plate of cookies Mrs. Kinsella had given him while fending off Diefenbaker, prior to a dash through the rain to his front door. “Is this part and parcel with the belief that when you run out of a personal product like toothpaste or mouthwash, you will have luck in the lottery?”

“Well, see? That worked out pretty good last time, didn’t it?” asked Ray, purposely ignoring the fact that though he’d won $25,000 in the Illinois State Lottery, a chicken had eaten his ticket before he could collect. He peered mistrustfully out the rain-streaked windshield at the sky and changed the subject. “Ain’t going to let up any time soon. You two making a run for it or what?”

“Yes, Ray, in a moment....” The Mountie licked his lips, as he always did before broaching a tricky subject. “Ray?”

“What, Benny?”

“What ever are we going to do about Mrs. Kinsella?”

The cop shrugged. “We’ll check in on her on a regular basis—I’ll even get Ma to have her over to the house once in a while. We’ll help her move to the Sun Belt if that’s what she wants. You’ll get in contact with that auction house in New York and help her pack up that old lamp nice an’ tight for shipping.” He pulled a cookie from under the wrap on his own plate and ate it carefully, trying to minimize the amount of crumbs scattered on the Riv’s upholstery.

Apparently something was still bothering Fraser, because he wouldn’t let it go. “I know we’ll do all that, Ray; it’s just that... it doesn’t seem enough. Here we have a woman who gave her life over to looking after other people’s children, and she has nobody upon whom to rely now that she is the one who needs looking after. Given that two of her relations have already attempted to take advantage of her, and in a particularly scurrilous manner, how can we send her on her way knowing that her most dependent years lie ahead of her?”

Ray slumped in his seat. He was just not up for this, not after the day he’d had. “Look, Benny, we can’t do the things for her that her family should be doing for her. It’s not our responsibility and it’s not our place to go beyond ‘good neighbor’-type help. You can’t choose your relatives. But you can choose your friends, and she has good friends in us. She’ll be okay in the short run. In the long run? Hell, I can’t guarantee anyone’s long run, not even my own.”

The Mountie nodded ruefully. “I suppose that will have to do.”

“Look on the bright side, Fraze. Worse comes to worse, the cat’ll keep her in stolen credit cards and jewelry.”

At the mention of ‘jewelry,’ the Mountie quickly patted his shirt, where he’d pinned the Inspector’s brooch. He had been unwilling to chance damaging it by shoving it into his jeans pocket and had attached it just over the ‘P’ in R.C.M.P. on his tee shirt, much to Ray’s amusement.

“Don’t worry, it’s still there. And might I add, looks just lovely,” nodded Ray, straight-faced.

“Thank you kindly, Ray. Diefenbaker? Shall we?” The Mountie flung open the car door and he and the wolf ran up the steps into the apartment building.

“Fraser! Don’t forget! Two o’clock, my place; Ma’s making brasciole! If you don’t show up for Sunday dinner, Frannie’s gonna break my trigger finger!” followed them through the raindrops.

* * *

Monday dawned, the weather seasonal for early June: warm, sunny, pleasant. Fraser got to work early, as usual, but did not make the same mistake he’d made the last time he’d found the Inspector’s stolen brooch—he did not leave it on her desk. Which is why at 9:04 AM precisely, a very harassed-looking Meg Thatcher burst through the door of Fraser’s office, a wild look in her eye. A stream of questions flowed from her, with no space left in between for him to answer.

“Where the hell is it? Why didn’t you leave it on my desk? Did you lose it, Fraser? So help me, if you try to hand me one of your bizarre tales on why you don’t have my brooch, I’ll....”

He simply opened his desk drawer and drew the pin from its resting-place atop a pile of paper clips, placing it gently on his blotter. It glowed in the light of his desk lamp like a smooth, green chunk of Kryptonite. A slight smile played around his lips and eyes; indeed, so cool was his demeanor, one would never guess he’d been compulsively checking and re-checking that desk drawer every five minutes to re-confirm the existence of the brooch since he’d put it in there at 7:45 AM.

“Oh!” was all Thatcher could think to say for a moment. She picked the brooch up and studiously checked the fastening in the back, apparently unwilling to meet his eyes. “When I didn’t find it on my desk, I naturally assumed the worst. Why didn’t you just leave it there like the last time?”

“I believe at that time, you left standing orders that I never penetrate your inner sanctum....” The Inspector lifted a knowing eyebrow at this and he realized with horror what that had sounded like. Blushing, he rushed to clarify, “...which is, uh, to say, never to go into your office... in future. Sir.”

“Oh!” Thatcher repeated herself. She tilted her head in a semi-shrug for a moment, pursing her lips as if she were trying to say something she found rather difficult to express. “Yes. Well. That seems rather... rather unnecessary; in fact, it’s downright silly, isn’t it, to bar a member of my staff from my office. We’re a team; we all work together here. You might need access at some future, um, date....” She finally, slowly, looked up and met his very blue, very understanding eyes. “...to... to my office.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She smiled, a smile as clear and sunny as the June morning, softening her sharp features. “Good!” she nodded at him in relieved approval and held the brooch up between thumb and forefinger. “I’ll just go and send Ovitz out to get this fixed now, shall I?”

“That would be a very good idea, ma’am.”

She nodded, suddenly all correct again. “As you were, Constable.” Performing a perfect about-face, she marched to the door, stopping there for a moment without turning around. “Thank you... Benton,” she said. “Thanks. For everything. Always.” Squaring her shoulders, she slammed the door behind her, waking up Diefenbaker, who had been asleep under the desk the whole time.

Fraser looked down at the confused wolf, who whined up at him questioningly.

“It’s nothing,” the Mountie assured him. “She’s quite fond of... of that brooch, you know.”

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> I always tried to write my Due South stories as if each one was an actual episode; with a crime committed, a plot, some humor, some tragedy, etc.: just set in an alternate-universe third season that represents my take on the direction the show was going in before Paul Haggis left the show. All of my Due South stories are set in this "faux" third season.


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